On the wall in the Motomachi Subway Station I spied a photo of the former race track. The image drew me into a era long gone. Today only vague phantoms remain. 
I enjoy walking through the many parks of Yokohama. In one park I shot a fountain playfully spouting upward against the recumbent flower beds. 
Chopped wood reminds me of the old Hollywood Western movies. Scenes of cowhands huddled around a campfire cupping their hands around mugs of coffee to keep warm. 
The tree root of a once mighty Oak Tree. Imagine its mortification of having its roots exposed to passers by ambling along trails threading through a forest path.
The sole surviving pine tree in Rikuzentakata after the tsunami uprooted and carried out to sea 70,000 of its brothers and sisters. 
Spanish moss hang from many oak trees in Carmel Valley. In one of my many wilder moments after imbibing one too many glasses of wine, I imagined viewing the moss distorted by a window pane covered by ice.
This worried oak tree trembled as a forest fire in the distant hill spewed smoke into the autumn sky.
The barks of trees victims of old age, thirst and the insatiable appetites of insects.
Cypress trees standing at attention as the morning sun rises for the early morning inspection.
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